There were four of us about that bed; The mass-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head, Over his feet lay the bride; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide. He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd

You must be very old, Sir Giles, I said; he said: Yea, very old! Whereat the mournfullest of smiles Creased his dry skin with many a fold. They hammer'd out my basnet point Into a round salade, he said, The basnet being quite out of joint, Natheless the salade rasps my head. He gazed at the great fire awhile: And you are getting old,